


The Glade of Delights

by emptysock



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptysock/pseuds/emptysock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods around Camelot, despite King Uther's best efforts, are filled with magical creatures of all kinds, some kinder than others. Takes place pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glade of Delights

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pink Trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7236) by oteap. 



It's almost too late when Gwen notices the darker, damp-looking area in the yellow-and-brown leaf litter spread over the ground around her favourite berry patch, which at this time of year is always covered in more lusciously sweet and juicy berries than a whole kitchenful of hungry maids can possibly eat. She stops shy of stepping in it, stepping lightly sideways like a nervous filly, her heart racing and breath coming short without knowing why. There's something under there, she's sure of it. Gwen freezes and stares at the innocuous-looking patch of ground, conflicted by her childhood memories of safety and happiness, and the current sense of danger.

Oh, she's heard the warnings before, the townswomen telling their children to avoid the tempting patch, because it belonged to a wicked witch who devoured disobedient children and threw their bones into her garden for fertiliser, and that was why the berries grew so big and so plump, but she had no mother and hadn't heard the story until she'd already hidden there one afternoon after a fight with Elyan, and spitefully eaten her fill of sweet berries on her own instead of bringing him along to share. She'd taken no harm from it then, and continued to visit the lovely little glade whenever she could without giving the superstitious whispers further thought.

It's been a while since her last visit, though -- maybe years, even -- possibly not since her first blood at thirteen, when she began serving the Lady Morgana in the castle and found she could no longer find time to run about in the woods alone and dressed like a boy as before, she had so little time to spend with her father and brother as it was. 

But today, with Father busy with a special order that he had to work on himself, and Elyan run off again after another fight with Father, she had remembered the lazy afternoons gathering sweet berries, and the memory made her mouth water. She'd even thought she might bring some for Morgana, to cheer her; her poor mistress's dreams have been more intense, more troubling of late, leaving her moaning and twisting about in the sheets, and flushed and trembling for hours after she wakes. Gwen doesn't dare ask about the dreams, terrible as they had to be. Morgana hadn't even been able to meet her eyes when she came to attend her that morning.

Stay, or go? Gwen becomes aware of the faint, damp smell rising from the patch; not just the rich forest smells of loam and humus, but something more earthy, more musky, almost animal in nature, faintly briny, strangely intoxicating. Gwen draws in a few more breaths, fascinated, shudders and sways a step forward, takes a step back -- then it moves.

Dead leaves scatter and the ground bursts forth in a flurry of pink before her, too fast to see clearly as it rushes to encircle her. Then what seems like smooth, moist vines wrap around her wrists and ankles and she sees everything. Everything. Gwen gasps in shock, and the heady aromas of the, the, of whatever it is, makes her head spin and her heart race faster, her blood stir.

It is a shining, wet mass of what looks like delicate flesh-coloured tendrils and thick, ropey vines waving aimlessly in the air, the vines around her supple and firm and gently, unyieldingly strong. The thick pink vines are warm and smooth and slick, and her hands slip when she tries to grasp them and wrestle them away from her legs, yet they seem to grip her well enough when they coil around her wrists and pull. She loses her balance and can't regain it; even as she tries to scrabble to stay upright, her sturdy, thick-soled walking boots are failing to gain any purchase on the writhing mat of fleshy tendrils, sliding out from under her so she falls on her bottom. Just for a moment, she is relieved that the vines have cushioned her fall quite effectively.

But only for a moment, as they flex and surge in waves beneath her and her woollen leggings rip apart at every point of contact, and she gasps again in shock and embarrassment, and not a little fear, at the sensation of the unnaturally hot, squirming flesh coming into contact with all of her nether parts at once and seeming to go wild in response.

She clutches helplessly at the vines wrapped around her wrists, staring down at the stark pink of the veiny flesh rippling, rosy against her dusky skin, and thinks with a startled giggle that the smooth, slippery texture feels a little like ... like her own cunt, when she secretly explored the slick, delicate folds and the secret warm, dark passage between her legs with her fingers in the dead of the night, under her blankets, while Morgana slept fitfully in the next room.

The memory makes her blush with the giddy idea that she is being touched, held, caressed by something private and hidden, and she bears down unthinkingly on the writhing vines, squeezes them with her thighs and buttocks and even her lower lips, and imagines it might feel like a kiss on the writhing vines.

The strange vines rub frantically against her in apparent excitement, reaching up and pulling at her shoulders and waist as if they would pull her into themselves bottom-first, her legs still raised and parted shamelessly in the position she had fallen. Her shirt is being pulled from her shoulders by their grip, and the furthest-reaching, and she senses somehow, most adventurous of the vines have already reached into the opened shirt to encircle her waist and probe curiously and gently at her soft belly and ticklishly at her sides and in her bellybutton, while finer tendrils explore the damp warmth of her armpits and cup and raise the soft curves of her tender breasts, gently supporting her neck as she throws her head back to gasp for air.

It's strange, and impossible, and wrong, and _perfect_.

Her lips part in an 'o' of surprise as the tendrils pat over, then tweak her sensitive nipples, and then soothe them with firm, wet strokes, as though they know exactly how to touch her, how it feels to be handled that way (only ever by herself, in her shameful little ventures as she learnt her own body's responses in the night, imagining the touch of other hands, even mouths on her body as she grabbed and pinched herself and tried to find out what would make her shiver and tense with need, never enough, never so certain and perfect as this), and when she feels herself wet on the vines beneath her ... everything goes still.

Then all the fine tendrils, and the coarser, veined vines tighten, just a little, and a passing breeze brushes over the wet trails left by every touch on her skin and clothes, cool and tingling over every inch of her worshipfully caressed flesh, and somehow it makes her flush hotter, and wet between her legs more, and she feels terribly empty and needy, the soft strokes over her lower lips not enough, gathering the vines and pulling them to her twitching pussy with her legs. "Please, I need," she gasps out loud, as though the vines could hear and understand her. 

Perhaps they can. They tighten more, but not painfully; she feels only safe and protected in their irresistible grip, bearing her gently above the ground as the tendrils on her torso begin to tease her again, making her want to sob for the unfulfilled need between her legs, so wet and empty, with only light surface caresses mocking her desire.

A full, heavy vine, bulbous-headed, slides wetly over her cheek and brushes her lips while a thinner tendril delicately brushes back a tickling wet lock of hair clinging to her cheek. Gwen pants desperately, and sucks the large vine into her mouth as though it would fill her aching cunt too, and sucks down harder and harder at the briny, musky slick and the feel of smooth flesh in her mouth, like her own flavour but subtly different, faintly floral, as she might have imagined Morgana would taste after one of her baths perfumed with flower petals.

Then finally, finally, she feels the kin to the huge vine in her mouth probing her below, sighing around it in relief, then screams in muffled frustration when it pushes into her bottom instead, flexing carefully as it fills and stretches her achingly, almost too far, without giving her the satisfaction she wanted. The vines hold her gently, bracing her neck, shoulders, waist, holding her thighs and ankles still as they thrust into her mouth and bottom and press against her like a hundred wet tongues licking all over except where she really wants them, and she tries to use her bound hands and legs, as far as she can move, to pin and press the hot vines against her pussy so she can shove herself down and rock on them, but it still isn't enough, and then the vines holding her limbs pull, drawing her arms and legs apart, and force her to release their fellows.

She whimpers around the vine in her mouth nearly down to her throat, wants to weep for need, and a few hot drops squeeze from her tightly shut eyes as the vines continue to abuse her mouth and bottom before a light tickle at her most sensitive part, exactly where she wants to be touched most, makes her cry out again and wet helplessly. Perhaps this is the signal they had been awaiting, for suddenly it seems all the vines not already occupied with stroking and pinching some part of her body (her neck her breasts her belly her buttocks her thighs the inside of her arms her fingertips and soles of her feet she can't take in all the different sensations at once) are focused on her dripping cunt nudging and tickling her and oh, oh, pushing into her, past the momentary sting of her maidenhead being breached that is immediately soothed by warm slickness, writhing against each other inside her like soft, wet serpents, there had to be half a dozen slim tendrils squirming in and out of her at the same time while a hundred others take turns to do everything, _everything_ she could possibly imagine to her body, and then another large, pulsing vine pushes past the tendrils to slide deep, _deep_ into her, _filling_ her to her limit and she screams around the vine in her mouth and clenches on the ones in her bottom and cunt, sobs and comes over and over again while they thrust and rock and caress her until she feels completely wrung dry, like a rag, and simply closes her eyes and lets them fill her up and use her as they like until she passes out there in the glade.

She wakes feeling refreshed, finds herself lying on soft grass, and if not for the fact that all her clothes have been shredded to nothing and how she is so completely drenched in slick, musky fluids, enough to pool on the grass around her, that she might well have been bathing in it, been reborn in it, it might have been a dream. There is only the slightest of aches, of stretched muscles, where she was used hardest, and she feels ... cheated, like she should have more bruises, more marks to show for her experience. Empty and unsatisfied, like she had felt when the vines had relentlessly teased and refused to fuck her.

There is no other sign that the strange mass of pink vines was ever in the glade. She wonders if she will see it again if she comes back. Then a tingling breeze over her bare, erect nipples reminds her of a more practical and immediate problem. How is she going to clean herself and get home? She climbs slowly and a little clumsily to her feet, slipping a little in the slick fluids still running down her body, and crosses her arms over her breasts, starting to feel more apprehensive as she looks around for something to cover herself, something more than her tattered shirt and scraps of leggings.

She jerks in fright at the sound of a twig snapping, then, "Gwen?" It's Morgana's voice, trembling and breathless, almost guiltily so. She turns around and sees Morgana half-crouched in the bushes, cheeks flushed and pink lips slightly parted, as though she had been panting. She is still in her thin night shift, which is damp with sweat and clinging to her as it always did after one of her dreams. Has Morgana witnessed it all? Had she dreamt it and rushed out after Gwen? 

"Morgana?" she calls, hesitant. Her Lady has a small bundle of cloth clenched tightly in her fists as she rises fully and takes a stiff step towards Gwen, staring at her nakedness with a dazed, shy expression. Though they are the same age, the wondering look on her face makes Gwen feel so much older and more experienced, protective. She holds out one hand in invitation, keeping her other arm crossed over her breasts. "Morgana, are you all right? Come here."

Morgana nods, mute, and drops the bundle in the grass, then suddenly rushes forward and embraces her, pressing her whole body tightly against Gwen, ignoring the wetness soaking into her shift. "I dreamt, I dreamt so many things, but I wasn't sure, I'm sorry, Gwen. I brought you a dress," she babbles tearfully against Gwen's cheek while Gwen holds her and strokes her back soothingly.

"I'm all right, my Lady, come on, let's go home," she says, gathering Morgana and the bundle of clothes with her. She looks back, once, as they step from the glade.

Behind them, the berries darken and swell, waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> This work also posted to: http://emptysock.livejournal.com/514.html


End file.
